


The Devil and the Bogeyman

by Atanih88



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Santino lives, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 22:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20713682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: Santino plays his card. Gianna can keep her seat at the high table. But he wants New York.And to keep it, he needs John Wick.





	The Devil and the Bogeyman

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a few months ago and hadn't gotten around to typing it up. It's going to be a slow burner and I don't have an outline for this one. I'm making it up as I go so, please be aware that there are no set update dates. I'm really just messing around and experimenting in the John Wick universe. There is no set plan other than there will be sex and violence lol. I'm currently completing an MCU multi-chapter fic so that will take priority.
> 
> This fic features some OC's as supporting characters, though there won't be a lot of this. As they're my creation, please can I ask that they not be used (I doubt anyone will want to but, putting it out there just in case).
> 
> I apologise in advance for any mistakes found, these are my own.
> 
> If you enjoy this and would like updates on my fics or current projects, please follow my [Tumblr](atanih88.tumblr.com).

The stench of smoke follows John as he makes his way through the gallery.

The gleaming floors of the museum are so clean that they reflect his shape as he follows the subtle nods of the security detail placed strategically throughout the building. They stand feet wide apart, hands clasped in front of them. Twitchy. They're on edge. Ready to wrap their hands around their weapon of choice and take him out. Remove the problem before it becomes one.

He's still wearing only his jeans and his dirty t-shirt and that earns him a few side-eyed glares and mouths turned down in moue's of disgust.

John pays them no mind.

Santino's attention stays on the painting in front of him. Even relaxed, his posture remains upright, old world elegance etched into the lines of his back and shoulders, arrogance in the title of his head as he turns just enough to acknowledge John's presence.

'I _am_ sorry John,' Santino says. 'Had you not come out of retirement, I would have left you alone.'

John rounds the plush seating and stops. 

Santino tilts his head back. His eyes are so pale. It's impossible to pin the colour, not entirely blue, not entirely green.

'You're thinking about it, aren't you John?'

And John can almost feel it, the strength of Santino's regal neck under his hands. That strength draining as John squeezes his hands tight, watching as those eyes slowly lost their trickster gleam and deadened. John feels the need of it in the blood pulsing in the palms of his hands. The itch to break the man in front of him held in check only by rules and consequences.

'Ah,' Santino breathes, a smile curling his lips, 'there he is. Lo spettro.' The smile disappears and for a moment John sees the true face of a high ranking member of the Camorra, always so close to the surface of Santino's old world elegance. 'That is who I want, John. Do this for me, and you are free.'

'What do you want?'

That smile crawls back onto Santino's face but not into his eyes. They remind John of a little corner of the Portuguese silver coast. Beautiful water that beckons in the low hundreds but once stepped into, the cold pierces through the skin to penetrate to the very bone, leaving you cowering and winded.

'Gianna has taken my father's seat as head of the Camorra and at the High Table.'

Gianna D'Antonio. Once, John would have considered them friends. But it has been a long time. A woman as beautiful as her brother and just as cut throat, though the D'Antonio siblings liked to go about it in different ways.

John catches the hint of distaste in the twist of Santino's mouth.

'You want her seat,' John says.

Santino waves this away. 'Naturally. And it will be mine, in time. I can't say I did not consider using your marker for this very purpose,' Santino shrugs the movement like that of a leopard stretching, unsheathing and re-sheathing his claws. 'But at the moment I have more pressing concerns.'

'Like what?'

Santino glances down, passes a slow hand down his tie, a small frown forming between his eyebrows as if he's found a wrinkle in the expensive silk. It's immaculate. 'I want New York, John.'

By the entrance to the gallery, Ares moves to stand beside the other security guard standing there, hands clasped in front of him with his eyes on John. She smirks John's way.

'New York belongs to the High Table,' John speaks slowly. He's not sure where Santino is going with this but whatever that is, won't mean anything good for John.

'Yes,' Santino nods, 'for now.' He shifts in his seat, unbuttons his suit jacket and twists to fully face John. 'It does. But that is why I need you, John. You see,' Santino reaches into his jacket and pulls out a marker between his fingers, 'this can either go two ways. It's very simple.' Santino sets the marker between them, pins it to the table with two fingers. When he leans forward, he looks up at John through his curls.

'I can claim this in one of two ways. The first is, shall we say, the easier way. You join me, help me with my,' he twirls a hand in the air as if searching for the word, 'cause. Not many would dare to cross you. I need you on my side, John. And should negotiations not proceed in a way that is pleasing to my wishes, then I will need you to step in and deliver a... _kind_ message.'

John stares. Santino is talking as if what he's suggesting isn't on par with suicide. No one moves against the High Table.

Santino taps his temple and gives John a slow smile. 'I can see you thinking, John,' he sighs, 'yes, in normal circumstances it would be an act of self-destruction. But with Gianna holding a seat at the High Table, I am hopeful that they will be more open to an understanding.'

John doubts that.

'But I suppose this is where the second option comes in. Perhaps I cannot wait and decide that Gianna is in the way. You kill my sister, John. I become head of Camorra and the High Table. But you know Cassian. He is very fond of my sister. And of course, I will have to avenge my sister's murder. So, you will be free but you will not be free, hmm?'

John wonders if he were to squeeze hard enough, if he would he be able to see the blood vessels bursting in Santino's eyes. But he keeps his temper banked, his hands relaxed where they rest on his thighs.

Rules and consequences.

'But you have had a hard evening and I am an understanding man. I am happy to give you the night to th—'

John gets up and turns his back on him, not even glancing at Ares as he heads out of the gallery.

Behind him, Santino calls out one more time. 'I will see you tomorrow morning at the Continental, John. You can tell me your decision as we break fast.'

John keeps his eyes straight ahead and doesn't look back.

*

Just as the city it belongs to, the Continental never sleeps.

As John sinks into one of the armchairs with a groan, he hears the click of Dog's nails on the floor as he pads up to John's chair.

John nods a thanks as the glass is set in front of him, dark amber liquid quivering in the tumbler before smoothing into stillness. John curls a hand around it and sighs.

Dog looks up at him, face serious. John reaches down to rub Dog's head. 'Good dog.' He takes his hand away. John leans back in his seat and drinks. Dog gives a quiet whine and lies down, head resting on his paws, eyes still on John. 'Yeah,' John says, 'me too.'

He takes his time finishing the drink, gaze locked on an empty table in front of him. He's contemplating the last mouthful in his glass, idly stroking Dog's head when Winston's shadow falls across his table.

Dog perks up but stays quiet.

'Good evening, Jonathan.'

John lifts his glass in greeting. 'Winston.'

Winton's eyes flick down to John's drink. 'You've met with Santino, I take it.'

The glass makes a heavy thunk as he sets it down on the table. 'Yeah.' He doesn't elaborate. 

'I see,' Winston arches his eyebrows, 'am I right in assuming you'll be a guest with us for the night?'

John stands. 'I have a stop to make.' He glances down at Dog. 'If he could—'

'Charon will take care of it,' Winston says.

John nods. 'Thanks.' He drops his gaze back to Dog. 'Stay.'

Dog sits up, looking up with sweet eyes and whines once.

'Good Dog.'

*

The humid heat is like a thick block of weight on John's shoulders. He picks his way through the crowds, tourists gazing up at the city lights, with glazed eyes, homeless in the shadows tucked away into the crevices, shrunken in on themselves. But John can feel the pinprick gaze of those who aren't what people see, pigeons flocking to their hands.

They stay on him through the train ride and John wonders what words have already reached the Bowery King's ears. They make no moves against him and he can't help thinking that it won't remain that way.

It's tucked away, a little bookstore with nothing more than a door squashed between to other ship fronts that closed for the night a long time ago. The dark green paint of the door gleams under the streetlights and when John knocks on it, the sound is the loudest thing on the empty street.

A couple walking hand in hand eye his height, his dirty t-shirt and the door. The man speeds up, tugging on the woman’s hand and forcing her into a faster clip.

John’s attention is drawn back as one of the door’s panels swings inward to reveal a heavily bearded face.

‘Mr Wick!’

John nods. ‘Is the Salesman in house today?’

‘Of course!’ The panel swings shut and a moment later the door opens to reveal a rotund man a full head shorter than John. ‘We didn’t know you were back in business, Mr Wick.’ The Assistant reaches out to shake John’s hand. His grip is firm and strong. ‘You are back?’

John steps inside. Not much of a choice.

‘Yeah.’

‘Excellent. The Salesman will be very pleased to be working with you again.’ The Assistant steps around John to close the door behind him. Multiple heavy grade locks click into place. 'Misses the old days, always complaining that they don’t make them like that anymore, you know.’ He stops in front of John again and beams, cheeks rosy as he claps his hands together in front of him. ‘Follow me, Mr Wick.’

They go through a narrow hallway, thickly carpeted, hasn’t seen a hoover in a while. Its wall shelves are rammed with books. They follow the hallway until they reach a spiral staircase, the steps creaking under their every step as they make their way up.

The top is completely unlike the first floor, it sprawls open into extravagance. Crimson curtains, heavy mahogany and floor to ceiling bookshelves that you have to crane your neck in order to see. John can see his reflection on the polished wood of the floor.

‘Sir. Mr Wick is here to see you.’

The Salesman looks up from the large book, lowering the looking glass. Red eyes fix on John before frost coloured eyelashes sweep down and cover them.

‘Thank you,’ the Salesman says and pushes up from his seat. The chair is silent as it glides back. ‘I will take it from here.’ The Salesman tugs open a drawer in his desk as the Assistant bows out of the room, steps creaking back down the steps.

It’s not until the Assistant’s steps have faded completely that the Salesman sighs, something small and whimsical. He doesn’t look at John again. ‘You have returned, Mr Wick?’

John makes his way over, stops in front of the absurd desk. It could easily fit three people lying side by side atop it. There are a lot of rumours about what that desk had been used for. There are gouges on the surface, marring the gleaming wood. Some of the deeper ones, despite someone’s best efforts still contained traces of a deeper red. John had seen the Salesman at work once. He likes to think once was enough.

‘It seems so,’ John says.

The Salesman inclines their head. ‘Hmm. This is good.’ The Salesman reaches inside and pulls out a flat black box that looks obscene in the grip of the delicate pale hand. The Salesman holds it out to John. 

John takes it with a nod of thanks and opens it. The certainty and focus which had brought him here falter for a second and he feels--

He brushes a soft thumb over Helen’s smiling face, wondering in detached amazement how it’s possible to feel so much grief and remain standing.

Gently, he thumbs the picture aside to look at the gold coins beneath. He pockets a few, closes the box and returns it.

The Salesman takes it back and returns it to the drawer, closing it with care, eyes still down.

‘Now. How may I be of service?’

‘What have you got?’ John asks, and feels it all settle in place, pulling focus over grief.

A thin, red smile splits the unusually white face and turns it into something out of a children’s nightmares.

‘Ah. I do like the old times.’


End file.
